


To Err is Divine: Act 1

by greencrusader13



Category: Divinity: Original Sin (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:40:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26686786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greencrusader13/pseuds/greencrusader13
Summary: Just as there are The Seven, there were seven Godwoken as well, their fates no less intertwined than those of the gods themselves. This is the tale of that seventh - the lizard Rahimus, displaced so far from home and with no allies of which to speak - as he awakens aboard a ship on frightful waters, and embarks on a journey in search of destiny and absolution. But first, he must escape the bane of all Sourcerers, and he cannot do it alone...
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	To Err is Divine: Act 1

-fair.

Rahimus jolted awake with a gasp, launching upright. Or at least, he would’ve launched upright, had his body not been obstructed by the unexpected presence of restraints bound tightly around his chest, neck, arms, and legs; all things needed for upright launchability. He strained against their hold on him, only ceasing once all lingering terror vanished, replaced with growing lucidity of the environment around him. 

It was not, to say the least, the place where he’d expected to awaken. Having never fallen unconscious mid-thought before, he would’ve imagined waking back in the same location as where the thought had begun. Time usually did not pass very long between the beginning and end of a single line of thought. Overhead the rusted chandelier had been replaced with a ceramic brazier rocking back-and-forth. The smells of stale ale and body odor were gone, his nose now filled with the scent of damp wood and saltwater and pungent chemicals that reminded him of a surgeon’s tent. Wooden planks surrounded the interior, and from his peripheral he saw some machine beside his table. It whirred as it went along its unknown task.

There was another scent intermixed with the last of that group, one that was harder to identify amid his tumble into consciousness. Rahimus paused, letting it linger.

Oh, it was blood. If past experience had taught him anything, blood was never a good smell upon waking up.

He craned his neck. A threadbare shirt blocked his view of the rest of his body, but from what he could tell there was nothing wrong, at least not on the surface. From a distance it would be hard to tell, though, as dried blood often blended against his wine-colored skin. More than likely he still had both his kidneys, though he could not say for certain. He licked the inside of his mouth. No teeth were missing that weren’t already gone, which was a surprise given his last memories before being knocked out cold. He still had a tail, which was being uncomfortably pressed into the table by the weight of his body. It was the only part of his body unrestrained, which at least informed him that this place was not designed with lizards in mind. Rahimus angled his tail and reached up with it through the hole of what could be called pants by the loosest definition, and checked for abrasions along his scaled abdomen. He sighed, relieved, as everything seemed to be in order. Whomever had captured him hadn’t tampered with his body to any degree, not in any detectable way.

The check was something he’d learned to do over the course of the past year upon losing consciousness in a way other than sleep. Normally the process involved a quick scan of the remaining gold in his coin purse, but Rahimus felt confident that he was without coin. 

He let his body relax. There was nothing else to do until something was wanted of him.

“Oh good, you’re awake.” The voice was female, coming from somewhere beyond his view. 

Before Rahimus could respond, the table beneath him jerked upwards with a mechanical clank. The restraints binding him sprang open, and he tumbled to the floor on his hands and knees. The ground itself seemed to sway still. Head spinning, Rahimus stumbled to his feet, hoping that his captors would at least afford him a moment to catch his breath. 

As he inhaled, he found that the tightness around his neck persisted. He reached up to touch it. Power radiated at his fingertips, barely contained within the metal collar. Rahimus fingered at it for any sort of latch or keyhole he could sabotage, finding none. It clung tightly to his throat; any tighter would cause strangulation. He ceased his examination. Tinkering might only make it constrict. There were types of collars like that back in the Ancient Empire, used on particularly rowdy slaves, and he’d seen what happens when utilized.

Looking around, Rahimus found himself in a laboratory of sorts. Iron beds such as the one he had just been confined to were spread around the outer edge of the room, though none held any other occupants. Shelves filled with books, jars, and other medical paraphernalia were interspersed between the gaps diving each of them. Peering closer, Rahimus found himself unable to determine what exactly was their intended purpose. Across the room lay a table filled with scattered notes, maps, and opened books. Whomever had been looking through them had either been in a hurry, or just didn’t care that their research was out for all to see. Were he back home he’d take the time to examine them closer, perhaps even learn something someone didn’t want him learning (as it always made for useful blackmail), but now was not the time. He hadn’t the luxury.

His eyes trailed upwards. Above him, a human woman in red watched him from behind a railing, a bemused glint in her eyes that held anything but mirth. Rahimus felt himself shrink as he examined her clothing, that of a magister.

More memories came flooding back: the tavern, the girl, The Flame Brood, the screaming and fighting, the Voidwoken. Blinkstrike had slipped from his hands in the fire and - Source - he’d used his Source. His heart and mind raced together in a frantic sprint. Did anyone make it out? The question never made it from his lips. Asking the magister would be a frivolous pursuit anyhow. Not many showed empathy towards Sourcerers. 

Rahimus glanced up at the magister again, even less hopeful than before. She gestured to him with a single finger and beckoned him. A slave to circumstance, he obeyed.

“Ah, you’re up,” she said as Rahimus finished climbing the steps up to her landing. She peered at him closer, running her hand along his collar. Her grip tightened around it, and she yanked Rahimus down to her level with little effort. “Yes...looks like that collar fits you snugly enough. Nice bit of work, even if I do say so myself.” A cruel smile curled at the edges of her lips, which then morphed into a fake pout. “Oh don’t give me that look darling. Every dog needs to get used to its collar.”

There was a time when Rahimus would have personally seen to brutalizing anyone who dared speak to him in such an undignified manner, but those days were long passed. He could only glare at this contemptible human.

“Where am I?”

The magister clicked her tongue. “They must’ve hit you on the head harder than I thought. Poor dearie, at least you won’t have much to worry about for much longer.” She gestured around. “You are aboard a Lucian-class frigate bound for the joyest of joys. Fort Joy, that is. But allow me to introduce myself: I am Magister Siwan. I’ll be your...caretaker for this voyage.” Rahimus would’ve trusted the word “caretaker” from her lips more from a scorpion poised for a strike at an exposed vein.

Fort Joy. He’d heard of it, or at least stories of it. It did not live up to the name, not that the place even tried. More ironic than accurate. It was the bane of Sourcerers, a whole island dedicated to their imprisonment. A playground for any magister who went above and beyond on the minimum sadism requirement for the order. There was no escape except by sea, and even then you’d face nothing but blue for miles upon miles. 

Rahimus considered his options. He could try making a run for it. They were alone from what he could tell, and though Siwan was armed Rahimus trusted his speed more than her own. Given their size difference he could restrain her, wrap his hands around her throat, and end her before anyone was the wiser. He dismissed the idea almost as soon as he’d finished it. He’d been detained for gods know how long, and hunger had inflicted a weakness in his arms that made even making a fist for a prolonged time untenable. Even if he could overpower one magister, he couldn’t do so against many, and there were undoubtedly more upon this vessel. They would kill him before he could even reach a lifeboat.

Though the tattered remnants of his pride curled his stomach into knots over the action, Rahimus adopted a cordial smile, just as his father had taught him in the presence of particularly unbearable individuals. Interacting with this magister would be little different from speaking with members of the House of Law, perhaps even more bearable than those conniving pompous cretins. “How...wonderful,” he said, folding his hands in front of him. “Any word on when we’ll be arriving?”

“Oh, excited are we? Not often I meet someone who can’t wait to reach The Joy,” Siwan said. “Don’t you worry your scaly head. It’ll be soon enough.”

“I don’t care for open water,” Rahimus growled. He glanced down at his tattered clothing. Even the slaves who tended to his home wore more respectable clothing than this assortment of stitched-together fabrics. It bordered on shameful. “What of my personal effects? Have those been stowed on the ship?”

“Now why would we allow a prisoner to keep their belongings, hm? That would simply be begging for disaster. Your clothing you were found in had some tears, and we found no purpose in keeping it. For all we knew it could’ve been Source-tainted from your presence.”

“My tunic alone could have paid half-a-year’s salary for any one of your order,” he said, barely masking his frustration at the casual destruction of his items.

Siwan dismissed his comment with a flick of her wrist. “Now, as for the weapon you had on you, it was given to Magister Colton, who apprehended you. You’ll not see it, don’t you worry. Colton was reassigned to Reaper’s Coast, and he is far out of your reach.”

“You gave my ancestral weapon - a crossbow that’s been used to turn the tides in countless battles in the name of the empire, one that’s been in my family for generations - to an underling?” Rahimus - however briefly - reconsidered his strangulation plan. 

Siwan only smirked, which hardened Rahimus’ glare. Trying to pry any more information from her would be pointless; the crossbow wasn’t here, and for now there was nothing he could do to get it back.

Rahimus pursed his lips. “May I at least have this bloody collar removed?”

She shook her head. “You don’t like it? Pity. Unfortunately it serves a very, very special purpose.” Siwan took a step closer, pressing her mouth close to his ear. For a moment he reconsidered his plan of not killing her. “Can you remember the power, Sourcerer? How it felt to wield? Even now I know you want to tap into it once more. Go on, try it.”

Her tone couldn’t have made it any more obvious that something more sinister was afoot. Back in the Ancient Empire he’d seen slave collars with enchantments before, typically reserved for slaves who were deemed early on as potential problems. With a simple command it could cause debilitating pain throughout the body, madness, or, in some extreme cases, violent, bloody death. He’d spoken such words before, though they burned now on his tongue at the thought. The other slaves often moved quickly to clean up the mess upon their utterance, he’d found, particularly when spoken in the great hall from his noble seat.

It seemed of little stretch that the Divine Order could manufacture similar devilish creations, especially for such few numbers as that of Sourcerers. Attempting to wield his powers, however new they still seemed, would only bring a reckoning upon his head that would be best not tempted. Of that he was certain. He knew not what would happen, but he knew better than to risk it.

“Your subtlety could use some refinement,” Rahimus said, backing away. “I’ll not wield my Source.”

“Don’t be shy now.”

“I’ll not.”

Siwan scrunched her lips into a pout. “A pity. I do rather enjoy watching what happens.” Haphazardly she gestured towards the door behind her. “Well, go on. Up the stairs with you. Your new life awaits! And if you’re a particularly good boy, perhaps a cure as well. An end to Source for good!”

The hell does that mean? Rahimus thought, stopping dead in his tracks as he made for the door, but he bit his tongue. A euphemism, quite possibly, for something incredibly sinister. Possibly more. Whatever it meant couldn’t be good, regardless of what most of Rivellon would say about it. It was no mystery that a great deal many would be relieved if Sourcerers vanished from the face of the earth.

He hesitated once more, hand resting on the polished railing of the oaken staircase that led up into the unknown before him. The wood, though cold, brought back images of home, of warmth and comfort. The manor in the Ancient Empire, where he was doted and where he schemed, where he knew he could never return. From where he’d ran, aimless for months. Until now. A new sensation filled his chest, one that had long since faded in obscurity, one he’d not felt since that fateful day he fired Blinkstrike’s trigger in that moment of anger and defeat. Determination.

He was going to make it out. Where he went next mattered not; that he could determine later. The magisters had given him hope, and he was going to use it.


End file.
